


One last soul

by linndechir



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years have passed since Operation Pitfall. The only thing Herc has left in this world is Max.</p>
<p>Max dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One last soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/2747.html?thread=3275195#t3275195). I am so, so sorry. This is probably the saddest thing I've ever written.

He keeps his calm when the veterinarian explains to him just how ill Max is, that there is no chance that he will recover, not at his advanced age, that he has trouble breathing and is in a lot of pain. That the humane thing would be to end his suffering rather than let him die slowly for days.

He listens, and he nods, and he asks if there is nothing they can do, money is not a problem, there must be something they can try, but she says no. Max is very old for a dog, his health has been declining for months, nobody can stop the course of nature.

So Herc says his goodbyes quietly, buries his face for a last time in the dog's fur. He may seem calm, but Max notices something is wrong. The poor dog can hardly move without being in pain, but he still nudges Herc's hand and nuzzles at his fingers, whines helplessly because he doesn't understand why his human is sad. Absurdly, it occurs to Herc in that moment that he's almost glad Chuck isn't here to see this. Chuck couldn't have taken this.

Herc bites his lip, he can't say anything. He wants to tell Max that he'll miss him, he feels like he should say _something_ , not because the dog would understand him, but so he could hear his voice. But his throat is dry and he's afraid the only sound he could make would be a sob, so he just nods at the vet and keeps stroking Max's fur as she gives him the injections. Max looks like he is simply falling asleep, and although Herc can feel the little heart stop beating under his hand, part of him is absurdly, irrationally convinced that Max will open his eyes again any moment now, bark in excitement and lick his hand.

He feels like he's in a dream when he leaves the clinic. Like none of this is real, just another one of those endless bleak dreams he has every night. But his dreams are never that coherent, his dreams don't include things like paying the vet and walking to his car with a box in his hands, and Max had never been that heavy, had he? Tears are starting to sting in his eyes on the drive home, his vision is blurring and his hands are shaking, but somehow he makes it home safe. Again. He always makes it home safe even when nobody else does. And he knows that this is not a dream, because if it was Chuck would be there to greet him when Herc arrives, only to vanish the moment Herc would try to wrap his arms around his son.

He lives in a small house on the outskirts of Sydney these days, moved there when they closed the last Shatterdome. It has a little garden with a large old apple tree. He had bought the house because of that tree, really, because there had been a tree like that at Angela's parents' place and Chuck had played under it every time they went to visit his grandparents. He had plucked apples from it in summer and brought them to Herc, _look, dad, this one's for you and this one's for mom and can I take one home for uncle Scott when he visits?_ Herc carries the box to that tree. He hadn't been able to bury his wife or his son, but he would at least bury Max. 

And as he kneels down in the dry dirt to dig a hole, the tears he's been holding back for the last hours burst out of him. There are no single drops slowly rolling over his face; one moment he's outwardly calm, the next his body is wrecked by sobs, his face is wet and burning from the salt, and he curls up into himself as if his insides were being torn apart. Finds himself lying on the ground, his face pressed into the dirt, there's dust in his mouth, his nose, his eyes, he's sobbing and coughing and spitting. 

It doesn't feel like dying. It feels like living, and that's worse.

He has no idea how long he lies there. His tears feel endless and his whole body is aching from the sobs that seem to tear through his very core, and he feels old, so _old_ , why doesn't he finally die instead of all the people around him? It's long past his time and he's still here instead of so many people who had more to live for.

It's dark by the time he can finally breathe again, although he still shivers when he picks himself up from the ground. Finishes with shaking hands what he had come to do here in the first place. He doesn't mark the grave. He knows it's there, and there's nobody left in the world but him who cares. 

He knows he's a mess, but he doesn't bother to wash up when he goes into the house. He hasn't cried like this in years, and he thought that was a sign that he was feeling better, that he was healing, if only a little. At least that's what he told people, what he told Mako and Raleigh when they called. _I haven't cried in so and so long,_ he'd say, and somehow that would make them feel better.

He used to cry every night after Chuck died. At some point he had started to cry less and less often, and he had hated himself for it. Had hated himself for every single second he didn't spend thinking about his boy, about how Chuck should have lived instead of him, about how they at least should have died together. They were always meant to die together.

The house feels dark and empty. It has always been dark and empty, he supposes, Herc never bothered to get any more furniture than the bare necessities. But somehow he had noticed it less with Max around. And yes, Max had been a constant reminder of Chuck, of the son he had raised to die, but Herc had cherished that. He wanted to be reminded. He didn't want to forget a single thing about his son, a single moment spent together, a single word Chuck had ever said to him.

He feels far older than his fifty years when he climbs up the stairs to his bedroom. A bare little room with nothing but a bed and a nightstand. A narrow bed that Chuck had never slept in, but Max had curled up with him there every night. Had licked his face when Herc cried, or later when he didn't cry anymore and only stared at the ceiling for half the night.

Herc sits down on the bed. Sits there until his back starts aching again, and then he opens the nightstand. A handgun lies in the top drawer, covered by a thin layer of dust. Herc bought it in the first year after Chuck's death. He spent countless nights with that gun in his hand, staring down at it, with Max curled up by his side. And eventually Max whined and pushed his head under Herc's hand, and Herc always found himself thinking that he had no right to go just yet. That someone still needed him. One last soul in the universe who still needed Herc Hansen to swallow his tears and drag himself through another day, and another, and another.

One last soul.

Max isn't here anymore.


End file.
